snowflake
by fall from stars
Summary: ONESHOT—He remembers that she is still new, and he almost feels bad for her. [Xigbar and Naminé] For Iris. Merry Christmas, darling!


A/N: So yeah. Um. This was for Iris, who is awesome and asked me to write something with Xigbar and Nami with the prompt snowflake. I kinda like it, and she really does too. So um. Yeah. Read it if you're inclined, and remember that constructive criticism is fun fun fun:D 

**Snowflake**

Marluxia loves to dangle his new power in everyone's face. He's the youngest of the Organization yet, number eleven out of a yet to be determined number. But the Superior has let him take charge of his Castle Oblivion, has given him things he has no right to. He sees the glint in Marluxia's eye, sees the way the scythe swings around to let blood flow on newly cleaned floors. And when Marluxia demands something, it somehow gets done, though he treats none of his superiors with the respect they deserve. If anyone's upset they don't show it, and since they all are, their heartlessness makes them fantastic liars.

Marluxia makes them take a tour of Castle Oblivion after its completion, like he's the only one who knows anything about it. He makes such a show of calling everyone superior, of acting like everything he made in the castle belongs to him. The first twelve floors pass by agonizingly slow, and the dull scientific talk of things that are happening and things that are yet to come drones through the halls.

Xigbar's already sick of it.

He knows he'll never be fond of this Castle, even if the Superior wanted to see it done. All the white is unnerving, bleaching him to the bone. A headache starts throbbing, provoked by Marluxia's stupid laugh and his "you flatter me _so_, Superior" and "of course I've always worked my hardest to see the Organization's plans come alive."

Xigbar thinks of how wonderful it would be to shoot Marluxia through where his heart was once.

His thoughts are cut short by Marluxia's quite lengthy introduction speech when they go up the twelfth staircase. It's a lot of flowery prose that's obviously rehearsed. He's saying he's saved the best for last, that the best surprise lies ahead of them. He opens the grand double doors into a blindingly small room, austere in decoration and monochrome in color, with a small ghost of a girl in the center of it.

She's in a dress that's even whiter than the walls, if that's even possible. Her hair and skin blend into the walls, and she sits in a glass chair with a sketchpad in her lap. Marluxia hisses at her—"Naminé, your _manners_"—and she quickly gives her master a curtsy, her ankles perfectly crossed. When she is given permission to rise, she only curtsies again.

"It's an honor to meet you, Superior, how do you do?" she says quietly to Xemnas. Her eyes are very blue and very dull. She prefers to look at the floor than at anyone else.

She says nothing else, but everyone seems to talk a lot about her. She's apparently just the perfect tool, the most wonderful way to get the Keybearer to fall into their hands. While he talks about her, Marluxia puts his hands around her shoulders. It's not a nice gesture. It does little more than to indicate that he owns her, that she's his wonderful little puppet, his new toy, his new doll.

Xigbar thinks, dismissively, that Marluxia is too old for toys. For reasons unknown, he stays behind when everyone else has grown bored with her. He looks above her shoulder to see her drawing a boy—the Keybearer, a runt of a fourteen-year-old—in some place that can only be described as a winter wonderland.

She finally notices him there, gasps a little at the shock. It's like she's afraid to be loud.

"Not gonna hurt you," he promises. He gives her a smile to show he means it, that she has nothing to be afraid of. But she won't smile back. She just stares back at him with big, big eyes.

"Do you know what these are?" she asks quietly, pointing to a blue-white star above the Keybearer's head. There are many of them falling down on him, surrounding him like a veil.

"'Course I do. Those're snowflakes," he says curtly. He remembers that she is still new, and that he himself remembered so little when he was first born. He almost feels bad for her.

"Snowflakes," she says with a smile, fondly, as if she's reunited with an old friend. "I've never been in the snow. I wonder what it's like."

"Cold," he supplies. He decides he doesn't care for conversation.

"Oh, I knew that," she says simply, blankly. "I just want to know what they feel like."

He doesn't want to be the one to remind her, or re-remind her, about how they can't feel at all. That's when he leaves her, ushered out with all the black coats. But he can't help thinking something bad will happen to her once Marluxia comes back to her, to the girl who can't remember what snowflakes are.


End file.
